“You Ain’t Nothin’ But a Hound Dog!”

And I’ve never had a dog, but I’ve had enough men to know that no other animal in the world is better suited — for a good man.

It just looks right when you see it: One of those sporty baby-tall boys, tired from a day of conquering the world in the name of his girl, slowly walking behind a leashed creature early in the morning. They both would be barely awake, yawning their sleepy faces into something so fucking adorable — into something that would jumpstart my ovaries into wanting to give life — and they would rapidly blink their kind eyes at the world that they couldn’t wait to get into: A man and his dog — the creatures of such strength and goodness, and of such unconditional devotion, so very different from my own feline predisposition.

Their fur would be equally disheveled, either from sleep but most likely from the roughing caresses that woke them, that day. Before other mortals would summon enough will to get out of their beds, a man and his dog would step out to greet the world firsthand: both of them aging without ever surrendering their innocence (and neither their strength nor the unconditional devotion). I would always want to come close to them, and burry my face in their hair, in all that goodness. If I could, I bet the man’s head would smell like the hand of his girl, ever so lovely; while the dog’s — like his own. And together, they would smell like a home I have yet to build, somewhere on a hill that would overlook the rest of my life — with forgiveness.

Instead, I am stuck watching them from a distance. At least, for now. But willingly, I would smile away at their expense while secretly tearing up from the privilege of being ever so close to all that strength and all that goodness. My ovaries would get jumpstarted into wanting to give life; but there they would be — a good man and his dog — slowly shifting their athletic limbs in the morning, not yet ready for play. But give them a good meal and a tender nod, and off they would go: leaping, running, panting, inventing their games as they went along; yelping contagiously, whimpering for attention; teasing or asking to be teased. And they would both be finally released from having to tone down their strength and their overwhelming enthusiasm. And the world would be theirs for conquering — in the name of their girl.

The dog would pull the master’s hand via its leash, as if saying:

“Come! Be! Love! Play!”

“Let’s!” — the good man would follow; because, being so very different from my own feline predisposition, he would never grow out of his habit for a child’s play. And unlike me, he would never grow up. Thank goodness!

Then, there are those little dogs, completely domesticated and entirely dependent on a man. They remind me of plush toys, with their teary eyes and perpetually stumped little faces. And one would have to be born with a heart of a villain to not want to reach for them, at least; if not sweep them up and stuff them under a coat, next to the heart — as if craving a piece of all that goodness. They are not really my type of dogs, because the world seems too big for them, and mostly full of danger (and that’s not my type of a world). So, they shiver and retreat, seeking protection from larger animals. But then again, in such dependency and trust, I bet I could heal a wound or two on the surface of my perpetually stumped little face. And perhaps, in this life, I would be able to move on a little bit faster — with a tiny creature stuffed under my coat, next to my heart.

The fancier dogs I treat as pieces of artwork. They strut with dignity. They hold their statures with focus and calm. But unlike cats with pedigree, these purebreds still haven’t forgotten the pleasure of some rough play — a bigger child’s play — or of a rough caress. To the contrary, because they are best equipped to win, they cannot wait for it. So, they pull their master’s hand via their leash, as if saying:

“Come! Be! Love!”

From one moment to the next, they are ready to topple you over at the door, after you’ve finished your conquering at the world for the day — or to save your life. And you cannot dare to object to either, because all that strength and goodness — and all that unconditional devotion — dwells in the best of intentions, and sometimes, despite their own.

And that’s just the thing about those sporty good men (good boys) and their dogs: Once a girl earns their unconditional devotion, their own life is no longer a matter of the biggest relevance. They may be in the mood for an occasional rough play — or a rough caress. They may even sometimes be quite child-like in their dire need for a silly toy. But if a girl can give them a good meal and a tender caress, off they would go: conquering the world, in her name.

And with all their strength and goodness — with all that unconditional devotion — they have the ability to restore a woman’s heart, into more life and into more love.